


De Mortuis Nihil Nisi Bene

by Hekate1308



Series: Sherlock Holmes/Sally Donovan Universe [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-29
Updated: 2013-10-29
Packaged: 2017-12-30 21:26:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1023566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hekate1308/pseuds/Hekate1308
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft doesn't appreciate it when people speak ill of his late brother. Post-Reichenbach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	De Mortuis Nihil Nisi Bene

He might not have been able to protect his brother. This doesn’t mean he’s not able to protect his memory.

Of course, if you asked Mycroft Holmes, just asked, like John Watson used to do, once, when life was relatively simple, meaning when Sherlock was alive, he would have denied everything – keeping his brother save. Loving his brother. Protecting his brother. Caring about his brother (Caring is a disadvantage, he’d meant it. He still means, still believes it. That didn’t protect him from caring, though. And now Sherlock is dead. And he still cares. Emotions are... complicated, which is why he always tried to close himself off. But, the problem is, by the time he chose to close himself off, he’d already let Sherlock in. He’d let Sherlock in when his little brother had been a baby and Mycroft had been barely seven years old. And no rule could change that. And no rule can change the fact he’s lost the one thing he cared about, and how much that hurts. Though he wishes, more than anything in the world, that he could change it – everything. Moriarty, Sherlock’s suicide, John’s pain, his own grief. But he can’t change anything. And that hurts. And the pain – it won’t go away. It just won’t).

If you asked him now...

He’d say that protecting his brother’s memory is more important to him than making sure there’s still a United Kingdom in the morning. More important than keeping her Majesty amused. More important than the North Korean Elections, even.

Because it’s the last thing he can do for his brother on this earth (other than keeping an eye on John Watson, naturally, can’t forget that. Never forget that. Sherlock would never forgive him). Because he couldn’t protect his brother, in the end. Because he should never have let Moriarty go. And it doesn’t matter what people say about the law – no matter if it was legal or not, he could have kept Moriarty, if he chose too. Occupying a minor position in the British Government has its upsides, after all.

He’s aware that no one knows how much he cared for his brother, loved his brother. He’s fairly sure not even John Watson knew, and that means something, considering the man knew how Sherlock took (or, more often than not, didn’t take) his breakfast and his tea – he knew his brother almost as well as Mycroft did, and for that he’s thankful, more thankful than the doctor can ever know, because – as far as other people are concerned – Mycroft Holmes doesn’t feel. He just thinks. That’s how it’s always been, that’s how it will be.

With the small exception of keeping his brother’s memory clean from people with a big mouth, that is.

Maybe the only reason he is after everybody who dares to speak ill of Sherlock, now that he’s dead, is the fact that he couldn’t protect him. Maybe it’s a way to atone for his own sins. He doesn’t care.

 Right now, if you speak ill of Sherlock, and Mycroft finds out, his only thought is “Well, now, that won’t do. Let me talk to them.” And he does. He always does.

His first “victim” (if you want to call people who dare talk of Sherlock as a fraud that) was Kitty Riley. Mycroft had her picked up after work, the day after Sherlock’s funeral. He had her brought to a warehouse (the same where he’d met John Watson for the first time, but he still thanks the Lord he’s above being dramatic) and talked to her. Made sure she knew what her options were. She resigned her post the next morning and is by now living in Europe (of course he knows the exact location, but you don’t need to know about that, now, do you?). He was surprised at himself, afterwards, at how much satisfaction he’d got from putting her in her place – a part of him knows he shouldn’t have enjoyed it so much, but then again, nothing concerning Sherlock has ever been rational.

 And, thinking about it, maybe he should do more than just scaring Kitty Riley enough to leave the country.

Originally, he thought Sally Donavan would be the next one on his list, but then he was informed she’d visited Sherlock’s grave... so there has to be some remorse there. At least, that’s what the reports he’s been getting tell him; how Sherlock is proved to have been right on more than one occasion, how she’s been desperately trying to hold herself together, how she’s broken off things with Anderson...

Ah, Anderson. Now that’s a different matter entirely.

The first time he heard about “snifferdog” after Sherlock’s death, Lestrade had called him. Told him he’d just “given the bugger a bloody nose for being disrespectful”. Since Mycroft’s always kept files on the people who met his brother more than once, he can’t help but agree with the DI, who certainly thinks he ought to teach Anderson a lesson.

However, he was inclined to give him the benefit of doubt; enough people had simply been annoyed whenever his brother showed up, after all.

But when Anderson loudly proclaimed that Sherlock had been a psychopath, that he’d deserved what had been coming to him, and that he’d done the right when he’d thrown himself off the roof of St. Bart’s – that was the final straw.

Mycroft had a car pick him up after work on the same day.

The forensic tech didn’t need to be told what to do; apparently, Mycroft’s driver looked menacing enough.  

He is quite annoyed when he meets Mycroft in the same warehouse in which he’s dealt with Kitty Riley and met John Watson, though.

“Who the hell are you? And how dare you-“

“My name, Mr. Anderson, is Mycroft Holmes.” Ah, he pales at that. Well, seems like there is something like a conscience in that man after all – only so deeply buried it can’t reach him, most of the time.

“Holmes? As in –“

“Yes. I’m Sherlock’s older brother.” He emphasizes the “older” like he’s always done. Anderson doesn’t appear particularly impressed; he’s even got his colour back, by this time. Arrogant sod.

“So, what do you want?”

“I couldn’t help but hear what you said about my brother today at work...”

Anderson looks at him like he’s grown a second head. “What – why – doesn’t matter, this is kidnapping, and I won’t tolerate– “

“How fitting, Mr. Anderson, because I won’t tolerate you running around and proclaiming my brother was a fraud.” Mycroft makes sure to use his most polished accent. “I have enough influence with the British Government – oh, believe me, I do, I know about your affair with Sergeant Donavan and that your wife left you – to make sure you never work again if you say another word against him.”

At the mention of his affair – and his wife’s current whereabouts (he didn’t even know where she’d gone, apparently), which Mycroft tells him right afterwards, Anderson grows silent. Very very silent.

“Let’s make one thing perfectly clear: If you ever do so much as mention my brother’s name – or even think about him as “the amateur” – I’ll make sure you regret it for the rest of your – rather, in this case, short, I fear – life. Is that clear?”

Anderson looks at him. Anderson nods. Sherlock has been right once again: The man is a maggot. Not even worth stepping on.

“Good. Anthea” – she’s called something else, by now, of course, but Mycroft rather likes this name – “will take you home.”

She does.

Anderson spends the next few months very quietly and never mentions his brother’s name again.

Mission accomplished.     


End file.
